Playing House
by Maycen Dicksen
Summary: We never had a marriage.


TITLE: Playing House  
  
AUTHOR: Maycen Dicksen  
  
RATING: PG  
  
FEEDBACK: Please. maycendicksen@hotmail.com  
  
SPOILERS: Just season three. Nothing specific.  
  
DISTRIBUTION: Fanfiction.net, SD-1. If you'd like to post it anywhere else, I'd be honored. Just drop me an e-mail.  
  
SUMMARY: Rag dolls and wedding rings  
  
DISCLAIMER: Oh yeah. Almost forgot. I don't own the show or the characters. If I did, there'd be no RONG. Or Connie Vaughn. Or Mac Smith.  
  
NOTES: I never in a million years thought I would write a Lauren-POV fic. Ever. I don't particularly care for the character, but in a way I do feel a bit sorry for her. This is my way of reconciling her and the marriage and trying to keep the characters in tact, when everything falls apart. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading!  
  
When I was a little girl, oh about four, I had this doll. It wasn't anything spectacular at the time (this was before the advent of Cabbage Patch Kids) but I couldn't-wouldn't-go anywhere without her. The grocery store. The doctor's office. Church. Anywhere. I was attached to her.  
  
I cooked and cleaned and changed her diapers. I was a good little mommy, my dad would always say. When I was five, my parents bought me one of those Fisher-Price make-believe kitchens. I'd put the baby in the high-chair and talk on the phone while I made such exotic cuisine as goulash or hash or spaghetti. And then I'd try and feed the solids to an infant doll.and did I mention that I was only five?  
  
Little girls love to play house. When we moved to London, I'd have little parties where we would play house for hours. My mom would bring in chocolate cupcakes and green Kool-Aid (my favorite) and we'd eat them off of my plastic china set. I imagined that I'd be doing that in real life one day. Making cupcakes and green Kool-Aid for all of my grown-up friends. It was a wonderful dream.  
  
As the years went on, I continued to have that dream. We sold the kitchen in a garage sale, and my idea of entertaining didn't involve green moustaches, but I still thought a lot about what lied ahead. I figure that all little girls do that, or maybe it's just a southern thing. On road trips, I would pass the time by flipping through the JC Penney catalog and decorating my future home. I had my wedding dress picked out by the time I was ten. I really didn't care that it was the 1980s and that particular dress would be considered hideous by the time I actually got ready to tie the knot.  
  
But anyway, I was going to get married at eighteen and be a lovely wife and have three beautiful children. Soon, I found myself naming my children. All of my friends did it, so I had to, as well. Whether we want to admit it or not, many of us continue to indulge in these childish fantasies well into our twenties and thirties. I did, even through my government training.  
  
Matthew. Katherine. Jodi. David.  
  
And then one day, I decided that my child's name would be Michael.  
  
I was back in the States, at the Barnes and Noble at the Grove, looking for a book for my father. That's where I saw you for the first time. You spoke and I was a goner. We began meeting for coffee, though neither of us called to plan a time. I knew you'd be there, so I'd come up with an excuse or something to buy. I've actually got a full collection of Jane Austen's work that I've never even picked up to read.  
  
Eventually, we went out for Mexican food at one of those cheesy chain restaurants. I had one too many margaritas, but it was fun. Three months later, we were engaged and my mother and I were planning the wedding of the century. It was the big Southern affair that I had always dreamed about and life was looking grand.  
  
I'd come home from my boring day and start supper. You would come home and kiss my cheek and ask me to explain said boring day. We'd wash the dishes together and then go to bed. I lived for that routine.  
  
I loved that routine.  
  
It was only a matter of time before we added something-someone-new to that routine. And that's when it happened.  
  
All of a sudden, we were back in Los Angeles. We still had our routine, but it involved both of us coming home from the CIA. There was less cooking and more take-out. No more talk of babies.  
  
And then there was her.  
  
Please don't think I'm blaming what's happened on her, because I'm not. I don't blame it on you, either. I don't even blame me. The truth is that all three of us are victims here. Victims of circumstance and of whoever took her from you in the first place.  
  
That's not to say that it doesn't hurt me to see you two together-because it does. You're not even doing anything with her.just your job. But it eats me up, regardless, and I'm finding myself becoming someone I hate, Michael.  
  
It is not my intention to play the martyr here. In fact, I'm doing this for me. I may try field-testing again. I may go and work in Dad's office. I'm not entirely sure yet, but I'll keep you updated on what I end up doing.  
  
I imagine you'll call me when you read this and tell me to turn around, that this is a mistake. But the fact of the matter is that we never had a marriage, Sweetheart. We were only playing house.  
  
I leave the letter on the sofa table and take one last look around before walking out the door for the last time. As I pull out of the parking garage, I look to the doll sitting-buckled in-in the front seat and smile. I'm smile until I get to Needles. And then I just pull over and cry. 


End file.
